They Think It's Normal

New York is the past for me now. I don’t know what goes on there anymore. Maybe it’s worse, which seems possible based on the headlines and other things I’ve heard, but I probably shouldn’t speculate. The New York that I knew felt exciting, it felt alive, it felt like anything was possible. I went all around that city when I could. There were days when I walked down more streets than I ever thought was possible. There were late nights when I walked down dark streets that I shouldn’t have. There were times I’ll never forget that couldn’t have happened anywhere else. There were glorious movie theaters. Back then it felt like the world. It was also the one where the film version of THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES was made and even though the New York portrayed in it wasn’t one that I really knew, being sheltered up in Scarsdale and all much of the time, something about it still seemed familiar. The novel by Tom Wolfe which I read a few years earlier seemed like an ultra-sophisticated and darkly funny look at a world I simply assumed was out there. Maybe the book isn’t as good as it seemed to me then but as far as the film goes, the book matters and it also doesn’t. I have no idea what happened to my old copy anyway and I’m not about to start digging for it but some of the book still lingers in the mind to go with that nagging feeling of how much the film is missing the mark. It doesn’t feel like a book that has lasted, maybe because what it was about was so much a product of the moment, but even taken on its own the film suffers from trying to squeeze so much plot that came from roughly 700 pages into just over two hours at the expense of what was so memorable about the source although even this is hardly its only problem. There are definite issues of tone along with trying to make its story relatable, as well as understandable, to anyone who doesn’t know New York instead of addressing the characters for who they really are. It’s a big budget movie star movie that tries to make the people in it likable simply because they’re being played by movie stars and this is simply the wrong film to try to pull that off.

Now going on thirty-five years old, the Brian De Palma adaptation of THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES remains a legend in the history of massive flops, a reputation helped by the publication a year later of the book “The Devil’s Candy: The Anatomy of a Hollywood Fiasco” written by Julie Salamon which documented the film’s production and the calamitous response when it was released in immaculate detail. Devouring the book at the time remains a vivid memory—I recall staying up to the early morning hours to finish it before Salamon came in the next day for an interview on the show where I worked—and reading some of that very same copy of the book again all these years later, I can’t help but have sympathy for De Palma who is a director I normally revere but simply miscalculated here in what felt like an attempt to please everyone although I’m willing to allow that he of course tried his best. I’ve seen the film multiple times over the years beginning with opening weekend right before Christmas Day 1990 and have never been able to stretch as far as actually calling it good but as wrongheaded as the film remains, by now I’ve developed a certain amount of affection for what it attempts, partly because the style De Palma brings to the material is evident, partly because no one attempts to make a film like this anymore. If someone did try—if anyone were crazy enough to attempt to remake the material, that is—it would likely be a multi-part series for streaming and it might be technically ‘good’, whatever that means, but I probably would get bored by the end of episode two and never go back, like a few streaming shows these days that I can think of. Everything else aside, at least the film is interesting and the older I get, the more I realize that counts for something. No one, after all, needs a more smoothly polite version of anything, certainly not THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES. And the film that did get made may not be entirely polite about what it sets out to do but it never seems to find the right sort of alternative.

New York bond trader Sherman McCoy (Tom Hanks) is a massive success and sees his entire being as a “Master of the Universe” closing deals for hundreds of millions of dollars like it’s nothing at all. He has a wife named Judy (Kim Cattrall), a daughter, a huge Park Avenue apartment and a mistress in the form of Maria Ruskin (Melanie Griffith) who he picks up at the airport one night for their latest rendezvous. But on the way back into the city Sherman misses their exit off the expressway and soon they wind up deep in the South Bronx totally lost. While finding an on ramp they encounter two young black men who may or may not be there to help and as they attempt to flee one of the kids is struck by the car. Safe back in Maria’s apartment, Sherman is panicked over what has just happened while Maria feels relief that they managed to get away but when the kid winds up in the hospital the firebrand Reverend Bacon (John Hancock) takes an interest, determined to get this into the press in order to have the city investigate and Assistant District Attorney Jed Kramer (Saul Rubinek) prosecute. To get this done the City Light tabloid enlists has-been, alcoholic reporter Peter Fallow (Bruce Willis) to their side and soon enough Sherman realizes that the walls are beginning to close in on him.

Even back when the film first opened, something seemed off right from the start in how THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES is visually spectacular throughout but too often this doesn’t happen in the right way. The time lapse shot of the Manhattan skyline taken from the Chrysler Building at the start of the opening credits is expertly done but doesn’t feel like anything particularly unique, no matter how complicated it was to attain. The famed prolonged Steadicam shot that follows as the credits continue, showing a drunken Peter Fallow played by Bruce Willis arriving at the event meant to honor him, is phenomenally executed on a technical level but the sequence still never feels like it’s about anything, playing like a case of De Palma determined to get such a shot in there whether it belonged or not, an attempt to visually open up a dialogue-heavy story or maybe compete with Scorsese’s famous GOODFELLAS Copacabana shot from earlier in the year. And maybe all this says something about the film’s visual approach to the city of New York, one of the greatest places in the world to photograph and a location De Palma had already explored in the past with incidental elements in films going back to the sixties, yet based on this film it feels like there’s nothing about the city circa 1990 that particularly interested him in a visual way so any sort of character to the city never comes through. However much really was filmed on location it never provides any sort of feeling of the actual place, no sense of what the city was in these days, no sense of what it was like to be in one of those crowded restaurants, no sense of what it was like to walk down the street.

That Steadicam shot is at least a visual idea and maybe since so much of the rest of the film focuses strictly on the plot and dialogue there’s simply no time or place for other such visual flourishes outside of what feel like Strangelovian-wide angle lenses to accentuate elements in a shot. With a screenplay by Michael Cristofer (who later shared the screen with Bruce Willis when he played a role in DIE HARD WITH A VENGEANCE) based on the novel by Tom Wolfe which originated as a serial in Rolling Stone, the movie offers the basic story but it’s the texture that hasn’t quite been translated so the De Palma quote saying he first envisioned this as a sort of cross between THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS and SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS makes me dream of what could have been. He can’t seem to find a way to bring this script to life since so much of it seems to be equal parts exposition and speeches meant to reflect things metaphorically with no middle ground, not enough room to play so it all feels stilted as the actors scramble around to play things as broad comedy. The epic feel that came from the sprawl of Tom Wolfe’s prose – and all these years later the idea of that compulsively readable sprawl is what I mostly remember, like the description of Sherman’s cab ride to work at the beginning -- is gone and the story all by itself feels surprisingly small now. Or maybe because of what we’ve gone through in the decades since all the scrambling around by everyone really does seem like a lot of hubbub over not very much which makes me wish there could be more visually to take in, the feeling of something more that the film might have wanted to say outside of all those long speeches.

Something in the staging is missing, an epic quality to make it more cinematic that would be a visual equivalent to all those words—maybe the film needed its own version of how a few years later the narrator of Scorsese’s THE AGE OF INNOCENCE doted on every last detail of the world being portrayed or maybe just something else to give a feel of the energy that’s there all through the city. Too often it feels like De Palma doesn’t quite know how to stage all this dialogue in a way that interests him and only on rare occasions, like the framing of a car scene seemingly lifted from THE SHINING or another shot that is almost the exact inversion of the way he later filmed a scene in his own MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE, does it feel at all playful in a way that helps the rhythm of what a scene might be going for. Even when he utilizes split screen at one point, just as he has done multiple times before and since, the device feels shoehorned in as if he’s trying to come up with something, anything, other than just flatly shooting the scene head-on but the staging feels like he pulled back from the idea when editing so for a few minutes the onscreen action plays entirely on the right side of the frame. Just like this scene, it’s a film being made by a master with a stylistic approach that for whatever reason he can’t take all the way so the idea never lands. Split diopter shots turn up, one speaker phone conversation at Sherman’s Wall Street firm is filmed entirely from above, Steadicam movements track the actors as they walk endlessly but it all seems to be for little effect. The De Palma satires GREETINGS and HI, MOM! from several decades earlier both of which starred Robert De Niro feel like they should be obvious precursors to this material—particularly the almost unbearably funny “Be Black, Baby” sequence in HI, MOM! which is one of the most racially charged pieces of satire ever—but it’s not really the case, so it doesn’t even feel clear what attracted him to the material, especially since he doesn’t seem to have enough good ideas for filming much of it. Maybe since the film had to be so expensive the freewheeling sense of how De Palma films back in the ‘70s felt where it seemed like anything could happen in the next scene is long gone. Even the specificity of how characters in the book are drawn feel like they’re based on actual people, or at least actual types prevalent in the city then but the film, knowing that people who live nowhere near the east coast aren’t going to care about those things, doesn’t bother with any of that so it never feels like any actual reality being satirized other than the generic concepts of things like ‘racism’ and ‘rich people’.

The movie does at least attempt to make the audience feel a little uncomfortable with its portrayal of the Bronx as a war zone as Melanie Griffith’s temptress Maria Ruskin asks, “Where are all the white people?” when they drive through it. The Al Sharpton parody that is the extravagant Reverend Bacon played by John Hancock whose belief in his ability to control the righteous steam of the city that’s ready to blow and gain his own power in making sure that someone pays for all that anger, expresses this through a speech that at least approaches challenging what the audience for this might be looking for although something like the gospel choir that follows him around always singing feels like a stylistic extreme taken too far. But all this winds up feeling disconnected from however the film feels about its main characters. Sherman McCoy is clearly an unsympathetic, unlikable schmuck but the film doesn’t know what to do with that feeling and presents the story as the character’s redemption, his great chance to break away from how the world sees him taking all this on faith because of the star playing the role. Peter Fallow, who never quite seemed to be the second lead in the book the way he is here (way back when the Bruce Willis casting was announced I first assumed it was a miscasting of assistant D.A. Kramer, played to the ceiling in the film by Saul Rubinek) also gets the narrating duties which sort of make him an audience surrogate but the disinterest in Willis’ voice and casualness of the final result is even less successful than, say, BLADE RUNNER. “Christ, was this the world he lived in?” that voiceover asks when lightly touching on details as Sherman walks through a society reception with Willis’ demeanor feeling all wrong and it spells out the obvious a little too much while not adding anything particularly interesting. Not to mention how the film tries very hard to give more depth to someone named Fallow although the way it’s played, there barely seems to be a character to add anything to anyway. Fallow was British in the book, the better to make him a low-level employee in a Rupert Murdoch-type empire, and maybe a few years later they could have gotten Hugh Grant when his stardom exploded. Then again, the studio never would have waited a few years to make this film with such a topical plotline even if the actual film never seems to take advantage of that. But the daydream of this film being made in the mid-90s makes me think of Mike Nichols directing it with a screenplay by Elaine May around the time they did THE BIRDCAGE (the movie of the moment they did make later was PRIMARY COLORS, based on another book that has now faded from prominence) and that right there offers an idea of what is missing from the film that got made as the city emerged from the tensions of the ‘80s, no matter how much this was the only time the movie could have made sense.

The script that did get made does give us Melanie Griffith saying, “Don’t think, Sherman. Just fuck,” which at least is a good line although that’s a low bar. And maybe the film is politically confused about what it wants to say or at least uncertain how it feels about all this, maybe just wanting not to upset anyone while still trying to seem edgy, acknowledging the politics while still presenting it all as ridiculous. The tone comes closest to showing some depth during the big speech by the unbilled F. Murray Abraham as the Bronx District Attorney with the actor bringing all the right energy to his biting dialogue (“You don’t think the future knows how to cross a bridge?” giving the whole thing weight for just a few seconds) but in a way, the Tony Roberts (RIP) speech in the great THE TAKING OF PELHAM ONE TWO THREE, a film which really does hold up as an incisive portrait of a racially charged New York, on what the voters are going to care about if the ransom on the subway hostages is paid (“The rich’ll support you, likewise the blacks and the Puerto Ricans won’t give a shit.”) gets to the point more succinctly than anything here.

The money is onscreen with cinematography by Vilmos Zsigmond and production design by Richard Sylbert that makes each scene look great. There are moments here and there that work but even when those things jump out it can sometimes still feel misplaced. Sherman’s reconciliation with his father played by Donald Moffat is actually a good scene, well-performed by both actors. It’s just in the wrong movie. Sentiment isn’t what’s needed, but even when the tone stays a little nasty like a drunk scene involving Bruce Willis and Beth Broderick as a woman who gives Fallow some key information the moment has potential but never manages to find the wit, resulting in a scene involving two drunk people that badly needs some Blake Edwards flair. We need to feel the opulence, we need to get the taste of a steak at a restaurant on the upper east side, we need the rush of one last martini before the check comes and you realize how much money you just spent. But along with that the film also needs a real kind of satirical anger and it can’t figure out a way to get you to choke on a laugh when the joke has gone too far. The film badly needs a bite that stings and this just isn’t there. Even the score feels like it needs the harsh trumpets of Elmer Bernstein music blaring and instead offers an easy listening saxophone vibe through the score by Dave Grusin that it does have which is maybe too lighthearted about the whole thing, although the bursts of classical music connected to the Don Giovanni sequence work much better. Too often it feels like the director doesn’t has the right inspiration for how to shoot all the dialogue and, as it is, a few zoom-ins on tape recorders playing have the most purely De Palma feel out of anything in the entire film.

Even the big meeting between the two male leads on the subway where Sherman opens up to Fallow without realizing who he is falls flat, with maybe the most notable thing about it being when Tom Hanks breaks down crying when he realizes he pissed his pants. I guess the film is saying everyone is guilty but only the white guys realize how guilty they are. This comes down to the infamous speech about Decency during the big climactic courtroom scene, spoken by the one character who isn’t guilty about anything in a stab at a Capra feel that becomes too much of an attempt at flashing a moral in capital letters to the audience before it all ends abruptly. The film version turned this judge, in the book a Jew named Myron Kominsky who keeps a righteous hold on things in his courtroom, into the thinly drawn Judge White played by Morgan Freeman as the epitome of all that is noble to maybe balance things out racially speaking but this also means that just about the strongest imagery involving a Jewish character has a bit player singing “Pennies From Heaven” at a funeral instead of taking control of a rioting courtroom. Morgan Freeman of course displays authority but aside from saying, “Get out of my face” to defendants a few times there really isn’t anything at all to the characterization. The film wants to redeem the people that it wants to redeem but that’s not the story. It’s also not funny, but this is of relatively minor importance. What does feel important is the lack of sprawl to the narrative that needs to ask the question of how the world has gotten to this place and maybe the only answer is to let the whole system burn down. It needs to show that there are no good guys and if they’re going to fuck you, you have to fuck them first. People don’t do the right thing, after all. Just typing out that sentence makes me wonder what a Spike Lee version of this would have been and the answer would have likely had more anger than the studio would have ever wanted but that version would also have been at least interesting too and maybe much more than that. The smart aleck nature of the way De Palma plays the material extends to the ending which I guess is meant to be a cynical curtain call, where good has sort of triumphed after beating the system at its own game but it doesn’t really matter. It also makes me wonder how good Peter Fallow’s book could really be, even if it is bullshit, since he did such a half-hearted job as narrator. Basically, everyone is applauding the moment because nobody cares about whatever the truth really was. All that matters is they get to have a nice dinner. These days, that might be the thing that has aged the best about this considering where we’ve ended up in the real world. But it still doesn’t make for much of an ending to the film.

Tom Hanks is adrift here no matter how much he tries, working to give each scene life and somehow bring his innate likability to a character who doesn’t possess any at all, but as much as he never quite convinces that he’s someone who doesn’t remember his doorman’s name is clearly trying his best. Bruce Willis, somewhere between the run of DIE HARD 2, MORTAL THOUGHTS and HUDSON HAWK, never feels like he’s doing much beyond wearing expensive suits which seem all wrong for this character and the way he underplays things feels too much the opposite of everyone else going through the roof. To be fair to him, Willis made several films in the ‘90s where it genuinely felt like he was trying to stretch, but the vibe coming off his performance that he’s maybe glanced at the script a few times means this simply isn’t one of them. When the news of the actor’s retirement due to his medical condition was officially announced, I found myself putting on this film that night even though I wasn’t sure why and maybe this speaks to my strange fascination with it that never went away but maybe also I was trying to find something of note to his performance because I wanted to, I always wanted to love Bruce Willis in films, but it still doesn’t seem to be there. Melanie Griffith and her exaggerated southern drawl does provide the right sort of energy whenever she turns up so it all feels refreshingly effortless in a film where you can feel the strain too much of the time, if only all the malapropism-filled dialogue she has was funnier. Even while overplaying things Kim Cattrall still brings the right sort of desperation towards making sure her character’s façade never cracks, the unbilled F. Murray Abraham probably does the most with all the dialogue he gets and Alan King in his big monologue, one of the best written speeches in the film and the one that really expresses what this is all about, is similarly enjoyable. Other actors find moments here and there, like Robert Stephens of Bily Wilder’s THE PRIVATE LIFE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES as the Murdoch-like publisher, Norman Parker’s police detective who subtly begins reading McCoy his rights during their first meeting plus a Richard Belzer appearance is always welcome, but there are also actors in this film who I normally like but many of them are either playing it all wrong or were misdirected as part of the attempt to have everything be as big as possible. There’s no point to single out any of these people for blame although I will mention that no movie ever needs to have this much Geraldo Rivera. Among all the familiar faces, a very pregnant Rita Wilson is a publicist at the beginning, Kirsten Dunst makes one of her first appearances here as Hanks’ daughter and this is also a reminder of the days when films would feature random appearances by George Plimpton but I guess this was a long time ago.

When the Christmas present to the world that was THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES came out on December 21, 1990, it immediately died. The opening weekend box office came in behind the first weekend of KINDERGARTEN COP, the second weekend of LOOK WHO’S TALKING TOO and several other films as well. Everything that season was beaten by HOME ALONE including other big-budget flops aimed at adults like THE RUSSIA HOUSE and HAVANA with only THE GODFATHER PART III doing anything near halfway decent business. It was hard to see the movie as its own thing at the time since too many people had opinions about what it should have been. It was also hard when the book about making it came out the following year and it’s still hard not to think about all the things surrounding it so many years later. But focusing on what the movie is even for a few minutes, shutting everything else out, it feels clear that De Palma and the other people involved just didn’t crack the material, which maybe is the only thing that needs to be said about it all these years later. In his book “Cinema Speculation”, Tarantino references how in making this film De Palma “would fall on his face and never really get back up again after fucking up Tom Wolfe” which is a little harsh not just because it ignores the films he made after this which are worth defending but because fucking up Tom Wolfe hardly seems like the biggest error a director can make. The epic scale of hubris displayed in Julie Salamon’s “The Devil’s Candy” could even be seen as a sort of spiritual sequel to the original novel, only things worked out better for Brian De Palma than the book’s version of Sherman McCoy. He got to make CARLITO’S WAY and MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE, after all, not to mention the phenomenal FEMME FATALE. I still love Brian De Palma films and wish the same could be said about this one, much as I want to be the one person around to proclaim this film really is great and you’re all just missing it. But there is something about THE BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES that keeps me coming back to it, maybe to understand the things that went wrong even more, maybe to find the good film that might be buried in there somewhere, whether it reconciles with the book or not. Maybe one of these days. This is something I can’t explain, but the fact that I do return to it has to mean something. I don’t rewatch WISE GUYS, after all. And I’ll probably return to this film again, looking for some kind of answer. Or maybe it’s all just an attempt to still try to remember the past.

Better To Be Chosen

Thinking about endings right now. With everything going on, it’s hard not to. Because things do end. But maybe, for the moment, let’s just focus on change. For starters, I used to drive a lot at night. Alone, mostly. There was something about moving endlessly through the city, somehow feeling like I was part of that world out there. Sometimes I would even wind up going places. But to look back even further, I’m honestly wondering what I thought when I first saw Federico Fellini’s LA DOLCE VITA all those years ago at a theater somewhere in lower Manhattan that I never went to again. Maybe I was too young to fully grasp the film that I was so curious about but parts of it did stick with me, certain images and ideas stayed put in my brain as I moved further into adulthood which allowed them to finally have meaning. But addressing the film on its own is still a challenge. Not long ago I revisited it in less than optimum conditions (which could make for a short anecdote but I’d rather not) and yet there was still the undeniable reminder of a gut reaction that this was one of the greatest films ever made. And, as much as it took me time to fully grasp what the film is saying, it does mean something to me. It’s just a matter of taking a few minutes to understand what that is and some of the answers may lead to places I don’t want to go.

Still, treating LA DOLCE VITA as a sort of monument resistant to any form of critique is unavoidable and addressing the film on its own is a challenge. This is one of those films, after all, that is not to be questioned. Its status as a masterpiece has already been chiseled in stone, probably right when it was released in 1960. To be honest, I have no real problem with this. The greatness of the film feels undeniable in every single scene which should be taken as fact, especially at a time when there are too many people that feel the films of the past don’t matter so the more it needs to be said over and over how much they do. And LA DOLCE VITA matters. Seeing this film can be intimidating, just as Fellini is intimidating, and if I’m being truthful a few are easier to connect with than others. But never mind about that right now. 8 ½ is the one thought of as the artistic peak of his life and career which it might very well be but the monument that is LA DOLCE VITA is the one that feels easier to connect to for my own reasons. For one thing, I’ve never been a famous director like the main character of 8 ½ but I have been the main character of the film playing in my head all these years in Los Angeles, living my own version of what this film’s Marcello goes through in his life and I suspect many other people in this town have felt that way as well. Fellini main characters are the center of their universe, the ones privy to things that no one else seems to realize and the tedium of their epic lives forever in search of an answer is part of what it’s all about.

The film leaves an imprint on my mind, the idea of Fellini as seen through the avatar of the forever cool Marcello Mastroianni who moves through that world of decadence born out of the post-war boom of Italy and one that cannot last. It’s being lived by people who are certain the party is never going to end, a world of restaurants and nightclubs throughout the catacombs of the ancient city and driving in convertibles on a road in from the airport still filled with farm animals even as the modern world of all possibilities representing the future seems to be going up around them. Los Angeles offers its own form of decadence and if you’re lucky you can remember those late evenings when it felt like everything came together just right. But it all ends eventually and when that happens the answer to what you’re looking for is still just as elusive. Maybe the best way to look at LA DOLCE VITA is not as a monument but simply a film, one which is relatable to the things we all yearn for and try to be open to the possible messages that it wants to help you remember. Those messages are nothing more than a reminder to find the answers for yourself, hopefully before it’s too late.

Marcello Rubini (Marcello Mastroianni) is a journalist in Rome, always on the town and covering stories of the beautiful people whether in nightclubs, the arrival of famous Hollywood movie star Sylvia Rank (Anita Ekberg) visiting the city, even the possibility of a religious miracle. His personal life is mostly taken up by girlfriend Emma (Yvonne Furneaux), who is always jealous and demanding of his love while he also has wealthy heiress Maddalena (Anouk Aimee) on the side although he seems to know how impossible that relationship really is. His ambitions of becoming a serious writer instead of just a journalist take up much of his thoughts and he holds great admiration for his friend Steiner (Alain Cuny), an intellectual with a family who himself seems uncertain about his place in the changing world. As Marcello tries to write even while continually getting caught up in the nightlife all around, he can’t seem to figure out the answer to what his life in this world is going to be.

Maybe in the end it comes down to what we want and the choices we make, all while trying to find that unattainable something we can’t even put into words. We get stuck on the road we think we’re supposed to be going down, unable to imagine another way and even if the right thing is suddenly in front of us, it can be easy to miss. The Rome of this film is a place that I’ll only ever be able to dream about but I’ve had my own experiences in Los Angeles and if I see anything of myself in what the main character of LA DOLCE VITA (story and screenplay by Fellini, Ennio Flaiano and Tullio Punelli, with contributions by Brunello Rondi) is confronted with that makes sense it’s because the film is about someone who sees himself as the main character of it all, floating above the city along with that statue of Christ in the famous opening, able to observe everything, known by everyone everywhere. The statue is a symbol in how it boils the presence of the church down to one big advertisement for itself and it’s hard not to look at everything in almost every single scene as a symbol, the way the girls up on that roof offer a feeling of what the decadence of the future has suddenly become at that point in time. With all this in front of you, the sweet life never has to end with the film showing all the beauty and fascination in that opulence, plus the unavoidable truth of how empty it all is. Marcello says that Rome is like a jungle, easy to hide in which is perfect for his life and it’s the perfect way for him to observe this world he’s part of and the thrust of the film comes from the choice he has, whether to live in it all through working as a journalist or the pursuit of really understanding what it is to be a real writer, to be a serious person of any kind.

It's a film about the modern world that’s well over sixty years old now but what it presents in each section that gets divided up is still recognizable even as it all seems so alien. And like the best films, this is one that becomes something different each time. Roger Ebert wrote about this very thing in his look at the film, likely one of the best things he ever wrote, where he describes in detail how it became a different film each viewing when he returned to it ten years older than the last and I’m not going to come anywhere close to what he said but I can’t help but think of it here. Because LA DOLCE VITA is a rich, funny, moving, stupendously entertaining film, haunting, relatable and alien, fascinating every step of the way. Each scene offers an immense sense of tangible life to it, showing the madness that comes out of the modern world while desperately reaching for what is impossible, the glamour that it’s all too easy to get sucked into, the women who pass through your prism all too briefly, the ones who stick around longer than is healthy, the relationships of various types that fell away until the ultimate realization that being at some party at two in the morning, let alone even later, isn’t the way to live anymore.

What is the film to me right now? Since I’m older, I hope I understand some of these things a little better. In some ways, LA DOLCE VITA is about searching for a reason not to go home for the night, something the main character never wants to do. That’s who he is, what he’s a part of, always in search of that next party, that next woman, the next reason to avoid the next thing. His girlfriend Emma loves him, clearly to an unhealthy degree, but he doesn’t want that sort of life, at least not with her or maybe especially not with her, not with someone who claims to love him the way she does. The wealthy Maddalena is who he really seems attracted to, but he knows she’s impossible and wants to keep her as a fantasy anyway, staying at arms’ length from her money, her family and the way she floats through the world never quite saying what she thinks. He’s given a somewhat high-class choice of which sort of life is truly worthy, deciding between his hot shot status as a journalist which seems to be primarily covering the exciting nightlife all around him being lived by the people he sees every night anyway or the more respectable ideals of intellectualism found in literature, likely achieved by finishing that book everyone is always asking him about. And there is no pain like being asked about the book you’re working on but not having a good answer and you don’t even want to tell yourself what the answer really is.

Every moment is more beautiful than you can imagine and it’s one of the best-looking films ever, shot in the full glory of Totalscope by Otello Martelli who also photographed LA STRADA for Fellini. Maybe later works by the director became even more adventurous in how they were shot but here every frame showing Marcello in the middle of all that life around him has a perfection and an undeniable vitality to it which is always tapping into some kind of emotion you can’t even describe along with a few camera movements sprinkled in throughout which seem deceptively simple at first but are downright haunting. The running time, along with the length of each individual sequence, forces us to look closer at the world around Marcello that appears lush and decadent but becomes not quite as interesting as they first appear so the more the film goes on, scenes seem to go on longer than you’d expect them to, the way a party can go on too long when you’ve discovered there’s really no point in being there, the nightclubs or restaurants where you just wish the check would finally come so you can leave and all this helps the film seep in.

Everything about the visiting movie star Sylvia Rank as played by Anita Ekberg seems unattainable, but she’s a fantasy that’s right there in front of him, barely even seeming real but it’s clear the fantasy only goes so far for her as well. No matter what, Marcello is two steps behind her the whole way, polite to her boyfriend and completely befuddled by the appearance of her friend Frankie with a vaguely satanic appearance who takes over the scene when all he wants is to be with her. Marcello is desperately trying to keep the fantasy from ending, the legendary moment where she beckons him into the Trevi Fountain is one of those sequences that show better than anything in all of cinema how the fantasy we never want to end gives way to the undeniable reality of what it becomes. The entire Anita Ekberg section might be the high point in the way it becomes what we remember most of the entire three hours and want to dream of but it does make sense for the film to peak early after all that excitement, almost like a warning that it’s not really about the rush you get from being inches away from the most glamorous woman in the world, even if it did turn out to be one of the most legendary scenes ever filmed. The things that really matter are going to be something else entirely.

Whatever the fantasy is, the very idea of it keeps going and can be far preferable to the reality of it all since people don’t want the answer that’s right in front of them. They just want something more than what they have, whether that unattainable fantasy of Anita Ekberg or the religious fervor that erupts into total madness found in the girls who insist they’ve seen the Madonna with the people all around them seemingly just as crazed as Emma desperately prays for Marcello to love her. The party at a castle where Marcello is greeted by members of a family who are barely awake and this party that has already been going on for way too long devolves into a search for ghosts as he spends the night in a dark corner with a woman he’s latched onto since the woman he’s really looking for has vanished and like all those parties it only ends because the sun comes up. The streets of Rome often appear to be empty, especially during all those dawns, except for the crowded sidewalk of the Via Veneto where Marcello is one of the crowd and people seem to spend all their time either gossiping or fighting. That glamour is all part of the fantasy and on the surface there’s almost nothing cooler than Marcello Mastroianni checking out the scene around him in his sunglasses, just as there’s nothing more glamourous than how cool Anouk Aimee is with that stunning look as she stands by the bar wearing dark glasses to hide her most recent black eye as she waits for Marcello, or maybe just waits for anyone. There’s no possible way to learn that all this isn’t what we really want without wanting to look this cool in the first place.

And Rome is the only place Marcello wants to be. Never seen at his apartment or office he wants to be out there in the city, maybe at that restaurant on the Via Veneto but he never even seems to want to stick around there for very long and maybe being always on the move isn’t the right strategy for someone who wants to be a writer. He never even says what he wants to write about or what his novel would be and maybe if he knew there wouldn’t be such a question about it all. The one time he tries to write, or at least wants to try, he gets distracted by a young girl named Paola working at a tiny seaside café who seems to represent all innocence and good in the world, the one person whose very presence indicates why he should be doing it or at least wanting to do it or do anything at all of value. For as long as the party scenes go on, this moment passes before we even realize it and Marcello doesn’t seem to realize how important the person, however young, he’s just met really is. There’s too much else around him now, the salon he’s invited to at Steiner’s apartment offering him conflicting answers and a ghost of the past in the form of his visiting father, someone he never really knew and now desperately want to connect with, looking so eager to share some of this life with him when he turns up but it’s way too late for that. And Steiner, his friend who seems like the pathway towards a more fulfilling existence, is the one who comes up with the worst answer of all. The almost unreal arrangement of a dead body found just sitting up is an image that likely inspired a scene in BLUE VELVET and David Lynch is another artist whose obsessions throughout his career can be traced to Fellini in how they can be personal almost beyond understanding yet somehow it all feels understandable down in the soul. It all comes from the places where answers can be found, just as all the dawns in the film seem like they might provide an answer for just a moment, even if it gets forgotten just as quickly.

Those things can also happen in Los Angeles which make me think even more about the film and maybe some of this is projecting, wanting to make the life I’ve lived seem more interesting than it is, but so what. The scene at Café Figaro in Los Feliz feels like the restaurant on the Via Veneto whenever I walk by or sit down for a little while and, no, that’s not my life in the slightest and yet I’d like to think of it that way at least a little, living in a place in a part of town where everyone goes, you can just drive up to it and there’s the person you’re looking for. A long time ago I even got to see the sunrise near the end of a party at a well-known screenwriter’s mansion and you can guess what I was thinking about at the time, looking up at the light and wondering how I got there. Marcello isn’t rich but he's seemingly known by everyone, and every time Maddalena appears it’s hard not to think of certain women who have passed through my life that also have money that you want to keep at arms’ length even when they say certain things about what they want from you because when you do finally reveal something of yourself to them it never goes the way you want to, just as it happens to Marcello when he takes that chance. He doesn’t get the moment he so wants from his father either. When he walks off at the end, it feels a little more than likely that he never tries to show that part of himself to anyone else again.

The grotesquerie of later Fellini hasn’t quite taken hold yet and here the beauty found in all of the faces shows an unforgettable layer of character to them while finding some sort of balance just as Anouk Aimee seems to be between impossibly attractive and yet somehow haunting to her expression, as if to tell us we don’t really want to go to a party with these people, there’ll be no way to leave and the whole point of living is to see the sun come up at the end of the night, because after that you’re nothing. Just as the spectacularly glamorous and larger than life look of Anita Ekberg seems unreal, yet there it is and for all the talk of symbols and meanings, there are also random pleasures like hearing Nico say the word “spaghetti” that she’s looking forward to eating as well as the soul provided by Nino Rota’s score, the background to the never-ending party which becomes as important as anything.

And there’s imagery that doesn’t need to be analyzed, it’s just there, understood on some sort of emotional level and can mean whatever you want, not a code to deconstruct, the sinking feeling that comes from the sight of the photographers, the name of one inspired the term Paparazzi, and the way they swarm a woman Marcello knows, unaware of the bad news she’s about to receive. Marcello seems to crumble inside at this moment so his look of self-loathing as Emma screams that he’ll never know anything about love at him says it all. But he always goes back to Emma. And she knows he will. He doesn’t want love in the end. He never wants to know what the next day will be. Then they’ll fight again and then he’ll go back to her yet again. His key decision made before the final sequence comes offscreen and with no real friends left aside from the people shouting his name all along the Via Veneto the choice he makes in his life is a way of making no choice at all, a prison which is the only kind of freedom he ever wants. He probably sees Maddalena again at some point. Of course he will. It also doesn’t matter. And then at the final party we see the end of all that, one more night that seems to go on forever and the people who broke into that house refuse to leave (minor side note and quibble which is kind of a spoiler: In the translation on the Blu-ray restoration released by Paramount, Marcello announces near the end he’s now working ‘in advertising’ but in earlier versions he says ‘publicity agent’, which seems to make the point better). Everyone around him will keep shouting “Marcello!” late into the night as if he’s the ringmaster in charge of it all but in the end he’s just one more person at the party that some will have no idea what he’s doing there. In the end, he’ll be forgotten and able to hide in that jungle for as long as he can.

By the final scene at a party that refuses to end complete with a striptease that no one cares about so the night just fizzles away, the glamour isn’t there anymore. The sea creature that washes up onshore that they go to gawk at is almost like the ultimate symbol of all, Marcello’s own dreams and aspirations that once were and are now nothing, far away just like the girl calling out to him asking a question he’ll never hear. The more I watch the final moment the more it affects me. Is this all it’s going to be? Shouldn’t you remember that voice asking what happened to you? What do the things that I desire mean? Does the life I’ve lived mean anything? Of course, reality is going to come around eventually. It was always there somehow. In the end, LA DOLCE VITA, a film about refusing to let the party end so life can begin, knows what the answer is but all it can really do is observe what Marcello decides in the end. Never choosing and choosing nothing is the same. Because doing otherwise might mean the end and there’s always the chance things might go on forever if you don’t. That’s one way to keep from ever thinking about the future. The final shot represents the hope of everything good in the world. We can accept that if we wish. We can smile back if we choose to.

Much of the great performance of Marcello Mastroianni seems to be about the sadness in his face, the growing awareness that people are seeing what little there really is to him and it’s an extraordinary piece of work. The women in his life are just as unforgettable, the otherworldly beauty of Anita Ekberg, the coolness of Anouk Aimee, the desperation of Yvonne Furneaux. It’s clear that he’ll never fully know any of them, just as they’ll never know him. All the faces that float past become memorable, Annibale Ninchi as Marcello’s father, Magali Noel as the girl who takes a liking to him, Alain Cuny as the haunted (and haunting) Steiner, Lex Barker as Sylvia’s boyfriend, Alain Dijon as Sylvia’s downright scary friend Frankie and especially Valeria Ciangottini as the young Paola who represents everything good in the world.

“I don’t think I know how to write,” Marcello tells Steiner at one point. Of course, this could be my motto as well. Maybe someday I’ll figure out how. For now, if I go out at night, it’s probably just to dinner or a movie. Maybe a quiet get-together at a friend’s house. LA DOLCE VITA is totally alive, all these years after it was made, but it’s also become a film that I somehow understand in some small way, or at least I know what I want to take from it each time I see it again. It doesn’t make me qualified to say that this is one of the greatest films ever made but that’s exactly what it is. Maybe I’ve changed enough to be able to realize this. From change comes endings but you never know when that’s going to happen, just like you never know when someone is going to call out and try to help you remember what you once wanted. If you’re willing to hear that voice, if there’s still a way for you to understand the message, it may turn out to be the only thing you ever needed.

The Real Reasons For Things

What we see in front of us matters. Even if we can’t always be sure of what it was. The things that have already happened matter. Even if we just want to move on. Haskell Wexler’s MEDIUM COOL is a part of history and an essential film even if the reality it contains has long since overshadowed what the film is. Released by Paramount Pictures in 1969, the time of EASY RIDER and MIDNIGHT COWBOY and THE LOVE BUG, the film came a full year after the real events shown but it survives now both in the reality it presents as well as the still genuine surprise of discovering how a film that opens with a major studio logo attempted to present such imagery with this sort of message at all.

In 1968 Chicago, John Cassellis (Robert Forster) works hard as a hotshot news cameraman and the morality of what he’s pursuing doesn’t interest him so much as simply getting the story not to mention the time he spends pursuing women. After he encounters a young boy possibly trying to break into his car, he meets Eileen (Verna Bloom) a single mother who has just moved to Chicago with her son Harold (Harold Blankenship) from rural West Virginia. While getting to know her, John soon learns that footage he has shot has been given by the network to the FBI and the news of his firing quickly follows. He gets hired again soon enough to film at the Democratic National Convention but as the event approaches, Harold sees the two of them kissing and runs off so as the protests swirling around the convention begin to take place Eileen goes in search of her missing son, unaware of what she’s going to encounter out in the streets.

Realism is the key word here, or maybe just the idea of it. The camera sees what it does because of the person behind it, the person controlling what the image is. But it’s not about realism. It never was. Whatever it is that we’re seeing is always affected by the way it’s photographed, which is what MEDIUM COOL is about, how the film is saying there’s no way an image can’t be somehow manipulated by the person behind the camera. The very first scene underlines this feeling, cameraman Forster and his sound man played by Peter Bonerz filming the body of a girl, either dead or close to it, lying by a car which has crashed into a divider by the highway. It’s their job to just get the shot, of course, not do anything about what’s in front of them with nothing even said about the condition of the person until an offhand comment to call an ambulance as they walk off. The image recalls the car crashes in films from this period by Godard, another filmmaker who played games with what was real or not and it’s certainly where MEDIUM COOL takes a lot of inspiration from. In this case the almost absurd coldness adds to the feeling, complete with a lone person on the overpass above who barely takes any notice of the scene. This is a film with a main character who approaches what he does always thinking about how to capture the image in front of him in the best way possible and the job is nothing more than that. The meaning behind it is something else entirely and the result doesn’t interest him. When a girlfriend suggests they go see a movie he instead takes her to a roller derby, something else that’s really happening yet likely not real at all, but if he’s not responsible for what’s being photographed then he’s not interested. It’s the act of shooting it he cares about, not the intent, not ever seeing what’s really going on and what the result of it all is going to be.

The style of MEDIUM COOL is one where each shot always feels curious, always probing as if constantly trying to understand the image. Each shot is important. Each direction the camera is pointing at matters. With this film more than most others, it’s hard not to look for meaning in every single image, real or not. Even the strict reality of what they’re filming has different levels, including the National Guard preparation drills for the upcoming protests that are anticipated at the convention, something that’s not quite real right at the start. But MEDIUM COOL is likely most known for the genuinely real footage it incorporates, using actual riot footage in Chicago during the convention that was captured for this film, in some ways the very reason the film exists at all with a close-up look at the protestors and police going up against each other.

At times it’s almost impossible to believe that some of this footage was captured at all and it likely dictated how much more important it was going to be than the plot. And this blending of reality, staged or not, continues all the way through like in one early section showing an actual Resurrection City protest in D.C. with Jesse Jackson briefly spotted but other moments are clearly a melding of the two, a glimpse of young voters in front of an RFK campaign office and one scene which comes soon after a display of filmmaking responding to the moment; the film was surely in the works before this event, another reminder of reality informing the fiction of it all. Haskell Wexler was already an established cinematographer in his career at this point having shot WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF? (for which he won the Oscar), IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT and THE THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR in addition to extensive work directing and photographing documentaries which continued long after. Wexler also has the screenplay credit here, although it would be interesting to see what the script actually looked like, and this film brings together those two halves of his career at once, turning each approach into something new and maybe it overwhelms the story but that is likely part of the point as well and it doesn’t flinch from how powerful this becomes, with editing by Verna Fields who would go on to cut JAWS six years later that always zeroes in on the power of each individual moment and how the images need to go together.

At an early cocktail party attended by members of the press they seem aware of the problem facing them with much of the talk being about what their role in it all really is, trying to do their job while being assaulted on all sides around them whether the rioters, police or their own editors. They’re trapped somewhere between the demands of the public and the demands of those in charge, trying to somehow do their job while finding the necessary balance. What the essential argument boils down to, simply put, is it their job to go for the blood or go for the facts. In the world we live in now, 55 years after the film was made, the media has become so corporatized, sanitized and so locked into the story they’re determined to present which has already been decided on that it barely seems like the same business anymore as the individual reporter becomes more and more irrelevant, never allowing people to focus on what’s actually happening at the moment. But in this film the people are still trying to pay attention, even if they’re still arguing about the events in Dallas several years later unaware of what’s still to come, maybe within only the next few days. “Let’s not get into politics,” says a rich woman being interviewed about life in Chicago in a way that makes it clear exactly what her politics are and, just like the press, a black taxi driver who gets media coverage after finding money in his cab is rewarded with suspicion on all sides for his honest actions. Robert Forster’s John Cassellis may be interested in a story like that when it’s in front of him but even when he’s trying to put together the pieces can’t quite see how it all fits into the bigger picture. There’s hostility towards everyone on all sides with the producer at the station putting baseball coverage on the same level as what’s going in in their ‘nervous city’ where there are places the cameramen are afraid to go and maybe they should be.

So many subjects are swirling around in the film whether it’s the media, the convention or the racial conflict hanging in the air. Driving through Washington where the funeral procession for Robert Kennedy is about to pass through, John Cassellis is mostly impressed by how fast the news crews are setting up while his sound man Gus is thinking about his time in a cocktail lounge the night before, musing on the pleasures of four and a half women for every guy in D.C. The film’s view of women and how the men treat them may be a product of when it was made but it all fits in with the main character’s view of the world and the people around him, just as interested in all the newfangled technology in his apartment he can show off as the naked girl next to him in his bed. When John gets bored with one girl, he tosses her over to a colleague who’s expressed interest anyway. The first girl he’s having a fling with early on is a nurse played by Marianna Hill, just as eager to have him jump on her in bed right as she is to call him a bastard while arguing about the way the documentary MONDO CANE may or may not have altered the reality it was filming but he likely doesn’t tell her about things like the girl from the opening scene. Whether the rush of the camera or the rush of the girl in his bed with nudity (possibly responsible for the X rating the film received at the time from the MPAA, although Wexler always insisted in interviews that it was politically motivated but, either way, it officially has an R now) that pushes the boundaries of the time and it’s all a reminder of how far he’ll go. Eileen from the Appalachian country of West Virginia is the other woman who comes into his life and, played by Verna Bloom in a way that always feels completely authentic, she may not be the same sort of intellectual looking to challenge John on the nature of what he does but she is smart and empathic, able to understand enough to know that something has shifted in the world around her. She keeps her poster of Bobby Kennedy hanging on the wall nearby, just as he has his own poster of Belmondo that he pauses in front of, another Godard connection but it also shows the two icons they each have, one from the real world, one from film.

The loose nature of the narrative forces the viewer to fill in certain blanks, including the issue of John losing his job then being hired for another crew covering the Democratic Convention very soon after, but it never seems that important. Although in the film they haven’t met at that early point, Verna Bloom is clearly spotted in her yellow dress with Forster during the cocktail party but this doesn’t really matter either and the director essentially admits to placing this scene out of order in the film on the DVD audio commentary, saying he decided to move the party up from where it originally was and since he wanted to keep what was being said he simply left her in there, more interested in the message than the need for a strict linear plot. Wexler is clearly willing to focus on the images and moments he’s discovered while filming more than an obligatory need to move the story forward, which speaks to what he wants to focus on both as a cameraman and a documentarian with it all continually adding to the immediacy. Cassellis thinks of his job as being more about the story than the subject, let alone what it means, caring about aesthetics not intent. He wants the story, not the human element, just as the black militants talk to the camera, and to us, but not any camera he might be pointing at them, just as the hotel kitchen workers in one scene are just doing their jobs, just a few feet from where history is about to change. Meeting Eileen and Harold gives his life a shot at humanity and the story thread of Harold’s birds being let loose, both in nature and in his own apartment, is a vestige of the project’s beginnings as an adaptation of the novel “The Concrete Wilderness” as if from a world that he’ll never be able to escape himself, stuck with memories of a father who is most likely dead, whether in Vietnam or otherwise, but either way he’s not coming back. One byproduct of the film’s unique production is how genuine every moment feels, whether showing life in Chicago or among the Appalachians, allowing us to connect with that moment in history even more, the people of all types are out there marching with the cops all around them, looking the way cops always do. The media also looks the way they always do even if the technology is different, with an out of focus middle finger coming from one of the marchers held up to them as one of the vans drives away.

Forster’s character is a boxer which indicates how he approaches his work as well, straight ahead and with a sort of tunnel vision, proudly uncomplicated in the way he says he’s “sometimes up, sometimes down.” This outlook adds to the nervous energy of the sequence where he visits the black militants, greeted with demands to do ‘human interest’ stories they want him to do but he only knows how to respond to this with his own hostility. It’s not entirely clear why he gets fired from the station and he doesn’t seem certain either, at the very least he was just causing trouble or so maybe he was just actually starting to think about what he was involved in. When he explains the how it’s all “just politics” and the media has its own script that it follows, a script that provides us with the narrative that we, the public, need. The moment has undeniable punch and though the film never really gets into whether this is an awakening he’s having or is he just caring about it for the first time it still has a power coming from what he now believes. It’s the voice of a man who has finally realized something that has changed his entire world, as if for the first time learning that his own reasons for doing the job had nothing to do with why they really wanted that footage in the first place. Early on Gus the sound man says that he thinks of himself as nothing more than a machine like a typewriter, but the film knows that the power behind having the camera to capture the image means nothing without any thought behind it.

The improv nature of this always feels raw, a representation of the reality of the time even if it’s an intentionally heightened filmic reality which makes the FORREST GUMP version of history seem even worse than it is. It stands to reason that anyone watching the film will be more interested in the convention footage than in the story of the Appalachians but even this makes sense. Beginning with the mesmerizing opening credits filmed from the point of view of a motorcycle that has just picked up an all-important reel of footage from the main character driving through the streets of Chicago as the instrumental “Emotions” by Love plays on the soundtrack feeling like the perfect musical statement of the film with the way it recurs throughout feeling like the spine of the film and it goes perfectly with its need to keep probing, searching, remaining alert. But so much of the music heard makes this feeling pop throughout, with “Oh No” and “Who Needs the Peace Corps” by Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention adding immeasurably to the mood of the moment. Even the psychedelia of the nightclub scene has a totally natural quality, never feeling like it’s trying too hard to present the moment as it was and though the counterpoint of “Happy Days Are Here Again” which plays while cutting between the convention and the aftermath of the beatings by the police and the message isn’t in any way subtle but it’s not trying to be. It’s obvious, too obvious, but watching this sequence now is a reminder of how we’re still forced to listen to things like this now as if to distract us from what the truth really is, in a desperate attempt to get us to believe that things are normal, even though we know otherwise.

The most important footage is held for the end, in the style of a showman knowing this is what people want to see, clearly building up to the convention protests out on the streets and a display of the police response to all this, giving us a good look at what they were up to. The look at what the cops were doing to the protestors seen during the final twenty minutes are as valuable as anything. “Look out, Haskell! It’s real!” is the famous line heard as tear gas is released just a few feet away from the camera and, just as famously, was dubbed in afterwards, a breaking of the fourth wall which itself is a break of the reality even as it appears to be spontaneous, but it gets the point across. It seems notable that the film’s main character who loves shooting with has camera so much is not present for the riots since this is what he’d want to photograph instead of the parliamentary nonsense of the actual convention. And we sort of lose just why Verna Bloom’s Eileen is in the middle of all this while searching for her son but that barely matters. She’s America, a forgotten part of America, wandering unaware into the middle of all this, with a yellow dress to help us keep our eye on the innocence she represents among all those people. “Come back!” a protestor shouts as a news van drives off before the beatings start, the media abandoning all responsibility as it of course was going to do, as it was always going to do, just as the film opened with walking away from a girl dying by the side of the road. The birds released by Harold are allowed to be free but never the people. Harold has nowhere to go once he runs off into the night, all he can do is return home. You can’t escape. There’s no way to escape.

“Jesus, I love to shoot film,” John Cassellis says while watching a TV documentary on Martin Luther King, Jr. To him, the simple act of doing it is what is so profound on its own. He’s moved by the imagery, he’s moved by the story being told but he doesn’t seem to register the actual reality of what’s in front of him, not knowing that the power behind having the camera to capture the image means nothing without any thought behind it and MEDIUM COOL mixes the two like no other American film ever has. In this sense the medium really is the message. The famous final shot, and the power of the message being shouted during it, is one that feels very much of the time the film was made with EASY RIDER coming out a month before this was released, but it still resonates. Or at least it should. The reality is still right in front of us. How real is what’s in front of us. How much it really does matter.

For a film in which performances on the surface seem secondary the actors who are there bring a great deal, always a sense of humanity to the inherent coldness of the approach. Robert Forster is phenomenal, very much a star but also completely and totally this guy. It may not be his best performance but it’s likely no one used him as pure movie star as well until Tarantino did years later. Verna Bloom, maybe best remembered now as the wife of Dean Wormer in ANIMAL HOUSE and as June the artist who assists Griffin Dunne at the end of AFTER HOURS, unforgettably projects a sense of humanity and warmth the film doesn’t otherwise have up against the son played by Harold Blankenship, an actual Appalachian boy discovered by the production in Chicago who barely seems aware there’s a camera on him. The sly presence of Peter Bonerz gives a comical feel to all his scenes even if he’s not doing much of anything and it also comes off as totally real while Marianna Hill, an actress who has long interested me with a long stretch of roles like her STAR TREK guest shot in the episode “Dagger of the Mind”, one of the leads in Howard Hawks’ RED LINE 7000 but maybe most famously as Fredo’s wife in THE GODFATHER PART II here plays John’s first girlfriend Ruth. It’s a part that stays on the outskirts of the story even as she gets some of the strongest scenes, the one person ready to challenge the message and her part is a sidebar to the main story and maybe a hostility he doesn’t want to deal with anymore, but she also feels totally genuine with the playful bit of business when she comes up to Forster at the nightclub making it clear that she knows what he’s doing. At times it can be difficult to always tell who are the actors and who aren’t in all this which of course is part of the point (Sid McCoy, the cab driver who finds the money, was an actor as well as the announcer on SOUL TRAIN) but Peter Boyle is of course instantly recognizable now as the gun clinic manager bringing some humor to the moment he gets plus Felton Perry, years before playing an OCP exec in ROBOCOP, is one of the black militants who gets a speech that he turns into one of the most powerful moments of the film, talking about a media that doesn’t want to know, never wants to know, telling us in no uncertain terms what the result is going to be if all this keeps happening.

MEDIUM COOL came out a year after the events it shows and I imagine by then the convention was old news, maybe something people were trying to forget. Or maybe they were off seeing EASY RIDER instead. Now, of course, what the film shows is history. And it’s still surprising that Paramount released it at all. The following year Robert Forster starred in Noel Black’s COVER ME BABE, playing a rising young film director, this time playing a man behind a film camera instead of a news camera. This makes it sound like the two films would make for a good double feature but it’s probably more interesting as a Los Angeles time capsule of the period and with its own style that hasn’t aged as well. Maybe ZABRISKIE POINT would be the better one to pair with MEDIUM COOL. Several decades later by the time news cameras had gone from film to video Robert Altman attempted his own blending of real and fiction during a presidential campaign using a much more satirical approach with the great TANNER ’88 series on HBO. And now life is one big blending of real and fake, always faced with the question of how much the media refuses to admit it, no matter how much the whole world is watching. But now the question becomes what the purpose is of the media when they don’t do their jobs, maybe not even understanding what their job is in the first place. Newspaper subscriptions get canceled (no more Los Angeles Times every morning for me) and no more cable news. It’s a media that has for all intents and purposes abdicated any responsibility in the events of the day more than it ever has, more than we ever thought was possible. It all feels like the goal is to make a world where there’s only one voice in the media, one voice allowed to speak its version of the truth. Of course, there’s a word for that and I don’t know if this message matters anymore. But that’s not up to me. And maybe what the final scene is saying is that you can’t escape. The only hope is that people will be watching. Until then, the world goes on. The watching goes on in an unending search for the truth. Hopefully.